


The Sound of Music

by gay_violinist



Category: Hamilton - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Metaphors, Music, hey that's pretty gay, how do tag, trash, what the heck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 00:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9692114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gay_violinist/pseuds/gay_violinist
Summary: Gay as heck, John is a fuckboi ;) (jk he's really not he's actually hella poetic and sappy and shy and it's g r o s s, John my boi get a hold of yourself) Alex is angry and tiny but also kind of shy as well, lots of stupid gay metaphors about music and art and shit. Alexander is Cool Cute new neighbour, blahblahblah, idk how to summarize so I guess if you really want to know you'll just have to read it ;) ;) ;). Fluff warning,,, I guess. Sorry for the trash :)





	

Looking back, John would realize that the first thing he fell in love with was Alexander's eyes. Alex was a hurricane, a non-stop whirlwind of long words and fast typing and the colour green. He was a melody, a fast-paced crescendo, only ever getting louder. He was a fire, burning and crackling, his luminescence climbing higher and higher into the sky, reaching out and touching every dark corner, a fire so bright you had to squint to look at it.

But his eyes? His eyes were soft. They were the eye of the hurricane. The brief pause right after the gradual rise, and just before the climax of the song. They were the coals lying beneath the fire; dark, but burning hot, and without them, the blazing flame would quickly die out.  
John couldn't remember much from the morning of the day he met Alexander. It was average. He remembered a little bit, stepping out of his apartment, nearly tripping over a pile of boxes at his feet. He didn't quite remember if he felt annoyed or shocked at how someone could be so inconsiderate to just leave these boxes here, in front of his door. 

The next part he could still picture like a photograph in his mind. 

After narrowly avoiding the box labeled BOOKS #4, a dishevelled, tired looking man had dashed out of the open apartment just across the hall from his. That's when John noticed that there were actually a lot of boxes, all of them leading though the slim, open doorway opposite him.  
The strange man was tiny, but well-built. Like, he probably wouldn't be a good swimmer, but he'd be great at track. (John would later roll his eyes at himself for being so goddamned gay.) He wore a too-big, pine-green hoodie which read "KINGS" in faded white letters. His long, coconut-coloured hair was a disaster, and dark circles hugged his eyes. One eyebrow was raised, and the other was narrow; he looked confused, in an almost comical way. He was, by far, the most, disgruntled, disoriented, distressed, fatigued-looking person John had ever seen.

And he was beautiful. 

John and the stranger stood there, for a good fifteen seconds, each in their own doorway, staring. John, looking tall and very well put-together next to the man across from him, was staring at the (what seemed like) hundreds of boxes which lined the hall and down the stairs. They said things like "NICE-ISH CLOTHES" and "PENS/PENCILS/INK. DO NOT TOUCH."  
The beautiful stranger, hand on the doorway, trying to catch his breath, was staring at John. Bright, bold, passionate eyes that John didn’t dare look at. 

He wished he could just walk away, down the stairs and to the grocery store, like he was going to, but they had both been standing here far too long for neither of them to say anything and just walk away.  
Finally, thankfully for John, the stranger spoke. "I'm so sorry," he forced out, as if he would've liked to speak sooner, but he was just so out of breath that he couldn't. "These are my boxes, I'll get them as soon as I can, don't worry." John still didn't look up. The stranger's voice was sharp and clean, but also rough, somehow. It was all clean-cuts and no funny business, and it sounded like a voice that should be clearly following an instructional set.  
But it wasn't. It was fast, and then slow and soft, and it sounded like a song, with decrescendos and rests and staccatos and legatos and long trills, but right now it was kind of husky from the man it belonged to being so out of breath. 

A sharp inhale, then a long, drawn-out, breathy exhale. A throat being cleared. "I'm Alexander Hamilton," the voice said. John finally looked up. Oh. Alexander's grin was wide and nervous and genuine. His voice, after finally taking a breath, now sounded like a painting in progress; brushes of dark green and brilliant blue and light, pale yellow streaked across a canvas, ruthless, bold strokes to detailed, precise flicks. John blinked, and realized that Alexander had one hand extended. "Oh!" He quickly took it, and shook a little more vigorously than either of the boys were probably expecting. "Hi, I'm John. Laurens. John Laurens. It's good to meet you. And hey, don't sweat it about these boxes, it's cool. I don't mind. Welcome to the building! Heh, say, where are you from? Somewhere on the north side?" John realized he was talking way too much, about at the same time he realized he was still shaking Alexander's hand, and he quickly let go.  
Alexander laughed. Already, it seemed, his frantic, tense demeanor had relaxed a little bit. "Nice to meet you, John Laurens. And, to answer your question, I'm actually not from New York at all. I just came here from the Caribbean; a little place called Charlestown. It's about as different from New York as you can get." 

John felt his eyebrows shoot up in shock. Wow, he thought. Then he said it out loud. "Wow! That's really- I mean- that's so cool, actually. I've never been-and I've never met anyone-who's been outside of New York." Alexander smiled and shook his head. "It's not that cool. I love it here, of course, New York, and its lights, and it's fast-walking people, and everybody's talking and the vibe is magical and energetic...but I miss the Caribbean. My parents in our tiny house. The quiet beaches where I grew up. It's just so different, y'know?" 

John was in the middle of thinking "Jesus, this guy talks more than me" when Alexander finished speaking. John's eyes shot up. "Yeah, yeah that must be...rough. New York is, I must admit, a little chaotic, but it's home. I love it here. I trust you feel welcome here so far? Listen, if you don't," here John leaned in and dropped his voice to a low murmur, "let me know who it is and I'll kick their ass." 

Alexanders eyes met with his for only a second, before he stood up straight again and laughed. He shook his head slightly. "Oh, you're funny, John. I appreciate the concern, but everyone has been extraordinarily welcoming." 

John smiled a little bit, only slightly disappointed. Why was he disappointed, though? He decided to return to that later. Right now, he had a very cute (cute? What??) new neighbor staring at him, and he decided in that moment that he would not be grocery shopping today. 

Later, John and Alexander talked for hours. John had offered to help Alexander with his ten billion boxes, and Alexander graciously accepted. Cue speech, cut to dialogue. For the next three _freaking_ hours. 

Alexander learned about John. He learned that his dad had kicked him out for being gay, so he took matters into his own hands, moved west and bought a little apartment. He learned that John loved art, and he was taking several classes in a nearby college, so he could eventually start to make a career out of his passion. He had a job at the moment, at the library, and it paid pretty well, but he really, really needed to get out of there. 

John learned about Alexander, too. He was like a character you read about in fairytales and feel sympathy for. He was orphaned at twelve, then lived in a couple of foster homes here and there, until he finally immigrated to America. John learned just how relentless he really was, constantly trying to fix something here but then he has to write something down over there, oh no! It was exhausting and exciting. He learned that Alexander would rather die than give up writing, because can't just _not write._ He learned, over those three hours, about the little dimple in Alexander's cheek when he laughs. He learned about his hands and how fast they can move, like hummingbirds, wanting to write. John learned about Alexander's eyes, how he can put a wall up in front of them if he needs to, if he needs to be stoic. But he didn't. Not with John, not once. His eyes would crinkle and fill with light when he smiled, and fill with an impossible intelligence otherwise.  
John also learned that, before today, he had never been in love. But he was pretty sure that this was it.

**Author's Note:**

> WOW ok that got off to a pretty gay start. I'm not entirely sure how many chapters there'll be,,,, or exactly where I'm going with this (ok maybe I shouldn't have said that. I fear that now you'll take me less seriously. Forget I said that! I know exactly what I'm doing. Trust me, I'm a professional. That's why I'm writing this huddled in my room at 1:00 am on a school night ;) )  
> Anyways,, again I apologize for being such t r a s h but hey if you're here, you're probably trash for something, too. Ok don't bully me I s2g (jkjk write whatever you want in the comments I do not care I will love you just for saying something) Thank you for reading. You're very kind and may you be blessed with clear skin, good grades and a $20 bill on the ground. Bless. #violinistOUT


End file.
